


Goliathan

by thestrangehistorian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 13th Century CE, A Brief History of Time Event, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, Mamluks, Middle East, Mild Language, Mongol Empire, North Africa, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, War, about as historically accurate as i can make it with my available resources
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestrangehistorian/pseuds/thestrangehistorian
Summary: It is the century of the Great Khans, the Silk Road, and plague. While their eldest brother studies the art of nationhood and tends to the royal court, three young Mongol states venture out to conquer the world, leaving trails of devastation in their wake. Nergui, the youngest, has toppled the city of Baghdad and with it, the empire of the Caliphate. Now, to complete his purpose, he turns his eyes to the Mamluk stronghold, Egypt, who finds himself the last bastion of the Islamic world.A piece about the end of a golden age and a clash between empires, written for the Brief History of Time Event.





	1. PREFACE - The Sands of Time

**CAST OF CHARACTERS**

**_Nations_**  
_“Mohammad”_ \- Egypt, a boy of fourteen.  
_“Nergui”_ \- the Ilkhanate of Persia, a boy of nine.  
_“Faheem”_ \- Iraq, a boy of fifteen  
_“Jana”_ \- Syria, a girl of thirteen  
_“Bataar”_ \- Nergui’s eldest brother and student of China, keeper of Karakorum  
_The Golden Horde_ \- Nergui’s elder brother and conqueror of the Rus

 ** _Humans, Mentioned_**  
_Mongke Khan_ \- the grandson of Genghis, currently the Great Khan, king of kings  
_Berke_ \- commander of the Golden Horde, a Muslim  
_Malik Kalim_ \- a cousin of the sultan of Damascus  
_An-Nasir Yusuf_ \- the sultan of the Ayyubid dynasty  
_Aybak_ \- the first Mamluk Sultan of Egypt (DECEASED)

 ** _Humans, Appearing_**  
_Hugalu Khan_ \- Mongke’s younger brother and Nergui’s superior officer  
_Kitbuqa_ \- Hulgau’s second in command, a Nestorian Christian  
_David of Ashby_ \- a Dominican friar, English-born  
_Al-Mansur Ali_ \- a boy of fifteen, son of Aybak and sultan of Egypt  
_Qutuz_ \- a mamluk, one of Aybak’s subordinates, vice-sultan of Egypt  
_Baibars_ \- a mamluk general, one of Aybak’s former subordinates  
_Qalawan_ \- a mamluk general, one of Aybak’s former subordinates  
_A Tatar, a Persian, and a Chinese man_ \- Nergui’s personal escorts and tutors

* * *

**PREFACE - THE SANDS OF TIME**  
_???_

Time is an odd thing. Death does not feel inevitable, though he knows it is.

His mother dies when he is little more than a toddler. Others cared for him until he could stand on his own. They died, too, in their time. Nowadays, he has his own apartment in the new capital, with a pallet for a bed and space to cook his own meals. His neighbors come and go, paying him little mind. The capital is no longer new; it was built by the caliph and his men. They gave him a new name, to replace the one his mother gave him.

When he goes to buy bread, he tells the shopkeepers that he is “Mohammad,” and so he is.

Egypt is a young country and an old one all at once. He used to sleep in palaces, to wear lapis lazuli and fine cottons and perfumes. Now he wears keffiyeh and a single gold band in his ear, as a reminder. But kings come, and kings go. Occasionally, the emirs summon Mohammad to the palace and tell him the state of affairs in the kingdom. But Egypt is still under the rule of others, and so Mohammad doesn’t dwell on it much. He has a job selling pottery. He’s good at it - knowledgeable and honest, which customers appreciate - and his employer is a decent man who treats him well. The tea shop on the corner gives him free meals.

In his free time, Mohammad goes fishing. He takes walks through the maze-like streets and talks to the stray cats. He learns to brew beer the way his mother did. Sometimes, especially during the flood season, he takes trips along the Nile, working to transport cargo into the harbors.

The emirs don’t mind his frequent absences. Mohammad suspects that they strongly prefer to do their business independent of his will; they don’t want to worry about a young boy’s wellbeing all the time. But some of them scold Mohammad, even forcing him to take his responsibilities to heart from time to time. He trains regularly at their behest.

There have been slaves in Egypt for millennia, since the dawn of his mother’s time. The mamluks are merely a different category of those same people. They are Christians and Greeks, Armenians and other peoples of the steppes and the Caucasus mountains, bought and sold to his country from Damascus and Aleppo and cities like them. As boys, they live and train together as a unit in the Citadel of Cairo. When they grow, they go off to fight battles and staff noble households. Some even advance to great heights or become free, eventually purchasing mamluks of their own.

Due to his condition, Mohammad cannot advance in the ranks. Mamluks serve their masters - the emirs and the rest of the noble class - while Mohammad serves only Egypt.

And eventually, the mamluks are ruling Egypt for themselves.

Mohammad notices the change gradually and then all at once. He has been summoned more and more often to the palace as of late. He sits in on war councils, meets with ambassadors. The emirs say that the state of affairs in the kingdom grows dire. It occurs to him that he must begin paying attention at last. The world is changing and Egypt with it. To be sovereign for the first time in centuries - the significance does not escape him. He is the descendant of empires, the student of empires, the heir to empires. And it is at last time for him to stand on his own.

When the emirs next take Mohammad to the palace, he sits up straight and listens.

_To be continued..._


	2. The Punishment of the Grave

**_PART I_ **

_February 21, 1258_  
_Baghdad_

At last, the city of peace is cleared for Nergui’s examination.

The domes and columns of the great mosques and libraries have all collapsed inward. The river is bloated with books and bodies, made murky with ash and ink and blood. Everywhere there are hollowed remnants of buildings. Nergui is both horrified and amazed at once. People once lived in these places. Perhaps some still do, but have the good sense to hide themselves when Nergui and his guard come through. He’s seen some of the great cities of Persia and he’s traveled with the Great Khan’s court in Karakorum, so Nergui knows what a living city looks like. All of the people walking in the open air, the women doing their shopping and the children playing and the men grouped up in the tea shops or hawking their merchandise in the bazaars and other marketplaces. Baghdad was like that, once upon a time - not three weeks ago, the city thrived.

Baghdad was a jewel of the oasis, the wise seat of an empire - and a holy empire at that.

Now it is a shell. A husk.

Their horses take a leisurely pace. Nergui wishes that they could continue on with more haste. The smell of fire and rot permeates the air. It makes his throat feel tight and his stomach churn. Besides, he has no desire to linger. He doesn’t want to admire the destruction. He wants to find his counterpart here, the keeper of the city.

“Why?” asks the captain, who is Persian and hoping to rise in the ranks. He's younger and handsomer than most captains, sent to the Mongol court by his enterprising parents, hoping to gain the Khan's favor and advance the family's name. “Even if he’s alive somehow, what use could you possibly have for him?”

“I was just curious,” says Nergui mulishly. Even if he wanted, he wouldn't explain it. “Never mind.”

One of the advisers, an aging Chinese man who has recently had his first grandchild, smiles indulgently.

“Young master, it is unlikely that this city even has a representative. The Muslims keep their empire stratified as your family does, but they are far weaker than you overall. Because this was the capital city, and because the capital moved at so many points in history, it is unlikely that any particular individual was raised to conduct its affairs.”

This man was assigned to tutor Nergui in languages and histories and he is Nergui’s least favorite adviser for that. Nergui may have the face of a child, but he is not one. _I will outlive you and your stupid grandkid,_ he thinks, and not for the first time. _Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand._

“With the city like this, the empire will crumble,” says the Tatar. He was sent to them from the Golden Horde and Nergui can't tell if it was meant to be an insult or a promotion. Nevertheless, he's Nergui's favorite; he rarely speaks unless he has something important to say. “It cannot come back.”

The Persian scoffs. “The city can come back whenever it pleases. It’s the prince we’ve got to worry about.”

Nergui frowns, thinking of it. Days of siege warfare, a week of looting and clearing the city of survivors. Nergui read the full report on the success of their attack just last night over the fire, at Hugalu’s request. Everyone seemed quite pleased, even the unsmiling Kitbuqa. Success, however, is relative. Nergui could not feel pleased with the results from the city’s capture. The caliph - the holiest man in all of Islam - is dead, but his son survived the siege and the sack. The last prince of the Abbasids. They’ll decide what to do with him this afternoon.

The Great Khan warned them not to overthrow the Caliph. He is sympathetic to the Muslims.

Hugalu, the general, is decidedly less sympathetic.

It is Nergui’s first military campaign. Mongke, who is the Great Khan, believes that Nergui and his elder brothers to be signs from the heavens, promising dominion over the Earth. The former Arab and Persian empires are to be Nergui’s domain. This is his destiny, the reason why he was put on this earth. Knowing what Nergui knows, he agrees with his captain. The empire will survive if it has heirs and this cannot be allowed.

But he can’t pretend that he isn’t worried about the caliph’s death. Like Mongke, he’d wanted Baghdad to survive the conquest. He hadn’t wanted this… careless destruction.

And more than that, Nergui harbors a sneaking suspicion that there is more truth to the captain's statement than the man knows. The city can come back whenever it pleases.

His guardsmen have no way of knowing the innermost secrets of - things - like Nergui. The instruments of empires.

There is no way to explain it but Nergui knows that his counterpart has lived.

For some reason, that fact makes him - not nervous. Nergui is a soldier now; he does not have fear like a child does. And the fact that he could defeat the caliph in his own city was proof enough of his invincibility. But the thought of a living counterpart - a rival - makes him certainly uneasy.

The representative of Baghdad would be greatly weakened by this war but he will live - and he will come back.

As the group rounds a corner and comes within the view of the great palace, they come across a team of men who are hauling the bodies out of the way, so that the surrounding area can be made usable for the general’s purposes. Hugalu rolled the caliph up in a rug before having his men run their horses over him, because enemy or not he was still a sovereign and letting his blood stain the earth would be sacrilege. The rest of the inhabitants of Baghdad could be cut down with impunity.

As they pass the line of corpses, Nergui spots an old woman with wide open eyes, a child no taller than he curled up on his split stomach, and several men drenched in blood, with arrows still stuck in their chests, necks, and heads.

Nergui tears his eyes away, listening to his horse’s steady canter against the wide path, ignoring the nauseating smell of decay.

_Somehow, my counterpart - whoever that person was - they are still alive._

The line of corpses is very long indeed. There are very few women in the line; most of them, and their children, would be sold as slaves throughout the Khan’s dominion. But there are a few, laid out with the rest, and Nergui winces automatically when he sees their misaligned clothing, the pained expressions frozen on their faces.

_I hope._

* * *

“Nergui” means “no name.” It’s a name that parents sometimes give to their child when they suspect that an evil might be present in their home. If the child has no name, then he cannot be susceptible to the spirit’s designs. But that is not Nergui’s case at all. In this case, his elder brothers gave him that name as an insult. A mockery.

The eldest of the four brothers is called “Bataar,” and he spends a great deal of his time with China, studying. He is the most foolish and soft of the Mongols, and this fact is the one thing that all three of the younger agree upon. When he is not with China, Bataar is in Karakorum, attending to the Great Khan’s court.

The next is the one who is called the Golden Horde, who rode north and is now in the process of subduing the Rus and the other Slavs. There is also Chagatai, named for Genghis’s second son. He is only a few years older than Nergui, and he is not particularly strong but his lineage is a proud one all the same. That makes Nergui the youngest and smallest, but he is determined not be the least of his brothers. He has already crushed the Caliphate. The rest of the sultanates and petty, squabbling dynasties of this region will soon follow.

Nergui does not fear his brothers. However, he cannot help but feel apprehension as the days turn to weeks and they wait for the nod of approval from Karakorum. He keeps thinking about the imams that he knew from court - their long beards and kindly faces. Their prayers were long and slow as songs, speaking of a great and mighty deity who would welcome all with open arms and destroy all enemies of the faith. If they hear about the fall of the Caliphate, they could become upset and they could complain to the Great Khan. And when the Khagan was upset, then nobody was happy. It might jeopardize the position which Nergui has worked so hard to earn.

But eventually, a Chinese messenger comes to their camp and announces that Mongke is pleased with their results.

Hulagu smiles and announces a renewed celebration; he is not surprised.

Nergui breathes a private sigh of relief.

As the dusk fades fast into a black, glittering night, the general and his men start to cook and to drink in celebration. Nergui approaches the messenger.

“Has there been any word from my brother?”

The messenger smiles at him.

“Yes. I have these for you.”

He produces a rolled of paper from his robe, and hands it to Nergui, who frowns. They are a warrior people, and though Nergui knows how to read, he struggles with it. He hates the fact that Bataar has taken to writing all his letters in Chinese. That is Nergui’s worst language by far.

But the messenger is not through. He produces a second scroll.

“And I was able to intercept this on the road,” he says. “News travels very fast in this day and age, don’t you think?”

Nergui holds the two letters in his hand, astonished. A momento from Bataar was given - but who could have sent the second?

Hulagu raises a cup of kumis.

“Come, young lord! Don’t just stand there like a lump, drink with us. It’s your victory, too!”

The general has never invited him to drink like this before. He sits by the fire with his eldest son and his closest commanders, the closest thing he has to friends. Nergui doesn’t know if his brothers would approve of him drinking. Well, the Golden Horde might. But Bataar certainly would not. He’s not old enough, and excessive drunkenness could be grounds for dismissal from the army. This is Nergui’s first campaign, after all, and if anything goes wrong…

He bites his lip, hesitating a second too long.

“Speak!” Hugalu barks the order, his relaxed expression twisting slightly in impatience.

“I can’t,” Nergui blurts out in response. “My brothers sent me something.”

“So what? Your brothers aren’t here now.”

“Yes,” Nergui agrees. “But this might be personal direction from the Khan. I must take it.”

“Damn Mongke!” says Hugalu. He can say that since the Great Khan is his elder brother and he is a prince himself. Nergui can only chew his lip. “Always butting his nose into others’ business. Leave it for the morning.”

The messenger looks sympathetic.

“General, if I may…”

“What?”

The messenger snaps into a straight line, startled when the general turns that commanding voice on him.

“Respectfully, sir, I believe that the boy is tired and too polite to tell you otherwise.”

Hugalu stares hard at the messenger. To his credit, the man does not flinch.

“Well,” says the general, scoffing and taking a deep drink from the kumis. “He should’ve said that outright. Get out of here, boy. Rest up.”

The change from “lord,” to “boy,” does not escape Nergui’s notice as Hugalu turns away in clear dismissal. The messenger looks at Nergui, as if he expects there to be some kind of understanding or even thanks. Nergui gives him nothing as he slinks back into his tent, feeling worse, somehow, than if he had received a condemnation from the Khan.

The firelights create dancing shadows as he lights a candle and settles down to read his brother’s words.

Bataar has written a very short, formal congratulatory letter, speaking in vague terms about the success of the invasion and how this is obviously a sign from the heavens that calls their people to dominate all the earth and purify the lands, etc, etc. Nergui knows that his brother didn’t even write the letter himself. It bears the right signature - _your brother, Bataar_ \- but no personality whatsoever. He scowls when he puts it away.

The second letter, as it turns out, is from the Golden Horde.

_To my most foolish little brother,_

Out loud, Nergui says, “Bastard!”

Someone outside laughs loudly and it may not have been directed at him, but Nergui shrinks up anyway. He hunches over the letter, letting the candle’s flame illuminate his face.

The letter reads:  

_To my most foolish little brother,_

_Do you have any idea what trouble you’ve caused? Did you not listen to your elders when they told you not to overthrow the Caliphate? What carelessness you’ve shown! I would expect nothing better from an ignorant child. Pray that your Baghdadi counterpart lives and has hidden himself, because if I learn otherwise, then the Caliphate will be the least of your problems! But you insisted on learning the ways of war, so allow me - as your elder - to shower you with some wisdom that I have learned. It seems that your education has been sorely lacking._

_Do you think that the Muslims will accept you now that you have ripped out the beating heart of their empire? Baghdad was their crown jewel, as holy a city as can be made by mortal hands. Why not simply march south to Medina and Mecca, burn the Kaaba to the ground while you’re at it! This is the height of foolishness. You are committing great evils._

_“If we are truly to rule over the Earth, we must make them fear us. We must make it so that they cannot fight back against us.” That is what I know you will say, because that is what I know Hugalu will say. If that’s what you truly believe, then so be it._

_But you cannot win the hearts and minds of mens by destroying what they hold most dear. I ask you: What is the point in ruling over ashes? I have razed many a city in my time, and Heaven knows that I will raze still more but I do not rip out a society root and stem if I can help it! This is the mistake that our family must begin to rectify if the empire we are building is to reach the corners of the Earth, let alone if we plan to make it last the end of the century. Mark my words, the devastation of Baghdad will haunt you - and, by extension - the rest of our family, for as long as we live and forever thereafter. The Muslims will see what you’ve done and rise against you._

_And to be entirely honest, I wouldn’t blame them in the slightest for it._

_You have bitten off a fair bit more than you can chew, my foolish little brother._

_But don’t take my word for it. Remember that we are not the first to seek dominion over the Earth. And if we are not careful, neither will we be the last._

_Regards, the Golden Horde_

Nergui pours over the letter once - twice - thrice. Each time he reads it, he grows more and more dismayed until finally his cheeks feel hot and his stomach clenches in protest. He crumples the letter and throws it furiously into a corner.

“When did he become such a poet?” Nergui asks aloud, sinking into his blankets without even bothering to undress.

_Mark my words… I wouldn’t blame them._

Is that supposed to be a threat? Nergui wonders. Part of him feels indignant. It’s not as if Baghdad’s destruction was Nergui’s fault. That was the general’s decision. Nergui had agreed with the Great Khan. He’d wanted to preserve the city, to keep the Caliph and his sons alive.

Nergui wonders if the last Abbasid prince has reached Karakorum yet. When they found him, they brought him to the palace before the general and his attendants, the prince renounced his faith. It is called “apostatizing” and apparently a grave sin. Nergui privately thinks that the prince was very wise for all the fear he’d shown. If he had not surrendered, he would’ve been destroyed like the rest of his family. But now they are preparing a place for him at the Mongol court. Hugalu even wants to find him a wife.

The dynasty will live, if only in memory.

_Ripped it out root and stem._

The Golden Horde is stupider than he looks, Nergui thinks. Baghdad was not a holy city, just a big one with a lot of people in it. Nergui would never destroy a place that was truly holy. And it wasn’t a big deal. The city can come back whenever it pleases. His counterpart, the keeper of Baghdad, is still alive and out there somewhere.

_They will rise up against you._

Outside, the soldiers drink and shout and dance until morning.

Nergui lets it all wash over him in a senseless tide and does not sleep a wink.

* * *

Seven days later, they receive word that Malik Kamil has killed the Khan’s envoys.

Nergui has never heard of this person before. He puzzles over the messenger’s announcement, struggles to read the unfamiliar handwriting, working his mouth around the name of the foreign town. “Mayya - mayafar -”

Hugalu is seated front and center but in such a way that he seems taller than every man in the room. He isn’t a big man but he radiates strength, a predator merely waiting for the opportunity strike. He says nothing but animosity rolls off of him in waves, choking the air from the tent. On the other hand, the messenger is a scrawny olive-skinned man with a birdlike mouth. He is visibly cowered before Hugalu, but scarcely appears to notice the others in the room.

“But they had already submitted,” says a general, astonished. “They’re subjects of the empire!”

“It’s their idea of revenge for the killing of the caliph,” another declares, clearly meant to convey the idea that it’s wrong or absurd. But Nergui looks back down at the letter in his hand, and reads the brief report once more. Malik Kamil is the cousin of the future sultan of Damascus and Aleppo, a powerful member of a proud dynasty. There are even reports that members of the Abbasid family fled into this region, seeking protection in their empire’s ancient western strongholds. Nergui thinks back to his letter from the Golden Horde and the thinly veiled threats therein.

Did he know?

He couldn’t have known. He must have written and sent the letter on the very day that he received news of Baghdad’s capture. And news travels fast in their empire, but not quite that fast. Nergui feels like he wants to vomit, just to get the nervous feeling from his stomach.

Meanwhile, the room erupts in a fury. Exclamations of outrage, demands for swift retaliation. The messenger, eyes still locked onto Hugalu’s face, takes a step back.

Hugalu puts up a hand and in moments, the rest of the tent falls silent.

“I am not concerned about this Kamil fellow,” he says in a low, grave, dangerous voice. “He forgets that his precious Caliph was nothing but an idol, a figurehead. If he took a few seconds to use his pathetic brain, he’d realize that his precious holy empire was as good as a lame horse and I did them all a favor by putting it down. Their golden age is over. Ours has just begun.”

A few shouts of approval greeted this.

Hugalu puts up his hand once more, a faint and wicked smile on his face. “But as said, these men have already professed to be loyal subjects of the Khan. And while we do not tolerate disrespect for our rule, we also have no need to fight unnecessary battles. Yoshumut.”

The general’s son stands at attention obediently.

“You will visit Mayyafariqin and remind them of their place in this world,” Hulgau declares. “As for the rest of us, we will move for Aleppo - lest Malik Kamil’s noble cousins get any bright ideas about defying us further.”

Now Nergui is confused - and uneasy. The Ayyubid sultans have been subjects of the Khan for years now. They pay tributes and contribute at Karakorum, and in return they are allowed to rule freely over their ancestral lands. He has never seen his regional counterpart in person but he’s heard plenty of talk about her. She’s notoriously stubborn and proud. This isn’t like marching against Baghdad, where there may not have even been a person like Nergui to attend to the city’s needs. Hugalu is talking about besieging an ally - someone like him.

“But -”

“But nothing.” Hugalu snaps at Nergui’s feeble beginnings of protest. He shrinks back from his general, ashamed of himself as the man turns around. “My brother is the king of kings, and he personally gave me the directive to expand our rule to the reaches of the Nile. As far as I’m concerned, this is my divine right. Our divine right. Anyone who stands in our way - no matter who they are or what there reasons may be - will be crushed. Yoshumut, can you do this?”

“At once,” the young man replies promptly.

The war council is adjourned within minutes. But Hugalu doesn’t even look at Nergui as he storms out of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sack of Baghdad is remembered as one of the most catastrophic events in all of Islamic history, comparable to the rupture of the Kaaba. The city was effectively depopulated, and would remain all but a ruin for the next few centuries. Marco Polo later reported that the Caliph died of starvation after being locked in a tower, which I’m not sure why he did that because a) he wasn’t there and b) that is WAY less dramatic than what happened in the official reports. Some even suggest that Caliph was forced to witness the execution of his sons before they trampled him to death. 
> 
> It’s important to note two things initially. “Franks,” refers to any person of Western European descent in Middle Ages vernacular (possibly because so many crusaders and their leaders were Frenchmen) while “Turk” generally refers to any person from Central Asia. Technically, the Mongols are a Turkic people but by this point, they’d gained such tremendous notoriety that we can refer to them by name. “Saracens” is a Western European term used to refer generally to Muslims and Arabs, and though I’m not sure of the origin, it seems fairly innocuous. 
> 
> The Golden Horde is mentioned by Himaruya as one of Russia’s tormentors. Due to the stratified nature of the Mongol Empire, I have decided to create separate Mongol states. Like the Persians, Mongols tended to style their leaders as “kings of kings” and “princes of princes.” And after the death of Genghis, things become ever more complicated. Meanwhile, the Golden Horde is often stereotyped as a big brute - and while he is quite brutal, as he conquest of the Baltics and Ukraine will prove - he’s also quite a strategist. The Golden Horde had a strong influence on the modern state of Russia and the Khanate's capital, Sarai, became an intellectual hub, a place with world-famous mosques and many poets. So it’s not so surprising that he’s an erudite in his own way.
> 
> Also, the Golden Horde’s leader - Berke Khan - often argued with his cousin, Hugalu. He had converted to Islam in 1252 and was furious at the devastation of Baghdad, not to mention the death of the Caliph. 
> 
> So Nergui’s playing with fire like nobody’s business.


	3. The Last Enemy

_**PART II** _

_November 11, 1259_  
_Cairo_

Mohammad realizes that he is in a very difficult position.

No, difficult is not the right word.

Vulnerable.

He is vulnerable.

The sultan is called al-Malik al-Manṣūr Nūr ad-dīn Alī ibn Aybak - and the royal title is heavier than the boy himself. Mohammad, though physically younger, is taller and stronger than Ali. The teenaged sultan looks uncomfortable, seated at what was once his father’s place at the head of their council. Mohammad had not really liked Ali’s father but at least Aybak was brave when it counted. Al-Mansur Ali is the polar opposite in every way, his skin blanched with obvious fear and nausea, fidgeting as they reread the letter from Damascus.

“The Mongols have moved into the Levant,” announces Qutuz, the vice-sultan.

“Do they march on Damascus?” asks one of the emirs, leaning forward with his hand on his chin.

Qutuz looks to Ali, who looks away.

“They demand unconditional and complete surrender from the Ayyubids,” says the vice-sultan, beginning to pace up and down between the rows of seated men. “Despite the fact that the sultans have already paid tribute to the Khan as sovereign. Aleppo refuses to accept the occupation of Christians and pagans. Fear is a poison in the air of Damascus. There’s a rumor of revolt. They are requesting immediate aid.”

One of the younger emirs, a man with a thick black beard and heavy eyebrows to match, scoffs at this. “The Syrians have been a thorn in our side for years. And now they want aid?”

“Against the Khans,” an elder reminds him. “For which I do not blame them.”

“God protect us,” murmurs a third.

A few of Mohammad’s immediate neighbors turn to him.

“What of your counterpart in the city? What has she said to you?”

 _Jana,_ Mohammad thinks. Jana the sword-dancer, fierce and rigid as a mountain. When they were first introduced, she threw a shoe at him. A few decades ago, she’d asked him to marry her. Mohammad thought that it was too soon for either of them to be thinking about things like that.

“We have almost two thousand years between us!” she’d exclaimed, indignant.

“Maybe,” Mohammad had agreed, “but still, isn’t that a little young for marriage?”

He struggles not to lose himself in the memory. The emirs wait for his response.

“She is strong,” Mohammad tells them. “But not strong enough to face the hoard alone.”

“A woman,” says Ali, surprised. “Really?”

A girl, really. Like him, the descendant of an ancient line of empires, but still just a young girl standing alone. That was the most difficult thing to think about. Mohammad desperately hopes that she will not go to Aleppo. She has always been so proud but to try and defend the city on her own was sheer madness. He prays and prays that Jana is smart enough to stay behind the walls of Damascus. Mohammad swallows his own fear like a bitter pill.

“That’s neither here nor there,” says Qutuz, frowning. “Can we give Damascus what they need?”

“Maybe?” says Ali.

An emir with a beard that reaches his waist says, “You are the sultan, lord. It is your choice to act or not.”

And the sultan of Egypt darkens with a flush. Everyone stares at him.

“It is no wonder that a woman cannot stand against an army,” says Ali hesitantly. “So, yes?”

There is a brief moment of silence and Mohammad has the distinct impression that everyone in the room is trying not to sigh out loud.

Qutuz’s frown lines deepen ever so slightly.

“It is well that we prepare ourselves anyway,” he says in a measured voice. “We must consider the possibility that, should Damascus fall, Cairo could be next.”

Ali’s voice is still uncertain. “Do we know why they are doing all of this?”

“Are you asking why conquerors exist?” replies Qutuz. “I think only God knows the answer.”

Mohammad has a sudden, vivid flash of memory. A wine-colored cape, a smile. The rare sound of his mother’s laughter. A fire that didn’t stop. And the night his mother said goodbye to him - cold and clear, all the stars glittering overhead like diamonds. She kissed his forehead, whispered something that he couldn’t quite hear, and when he woke in the morning, she was gone.

Ali is growing more agitated by the second.

“Do you really think that we could fall? Is there no one else?”

Qutuz says in a hard, resigned voice, “The kings of Armenia and Antioch surrendered to save their lives. Many others will follow.”

This comes as no surprise. Armenia is nearly as old as Egypt and considers him and his mamluks a threat. Antioch and his brethren are equally as hostile, though secretly, Mohammad feels bad for the Crusader states. He has a peculiar suspicion that they will not last long - that sooner or later, a new empire will come along and knock them down just as easily as the Franks had propped them up. But in the meantime, they are a persistent blight on the rest of them - an insult to their pride, these Christian cast-offs from faraway lands. The idea of any of those usurpers marching with the Mongol horde causes Mohammad’s temper to fray dangerously.

The emirs have moved back to discussing the invader’s direction.

“It is because the Abbasids have family in the region,” one emir suggests. “The godless barbarians are determined to destroy the caliphate completely.”

“I heard that they seek alliance with the Franks as well!”

Ali quivers in his place. He’s a bit too young to have fought any Crusaders but perhaps his father has told him the war stories. Mohammad stares at him until he stills, looking embarrassed.

“How can we stand against such a thing?” he demands, his strained voice higher than normal.

Qutuz looks directly at the boy, so that there is no mistaking the threat in his words.

“Having a strong sultan would be the best way to start.”

* * *

Mohammad receives frequent correspondence from Jana; letters arrive almost as fast as he can write replies. He keeps them tied in a bundle, tucked away in a jar that he took from his workplace one week in place of his regular payment. When they aren’t getting along, the volume of the correspondence increases considerably, since she’s a smart girl and isn’t in the business of hiding her opinions. But even when they fight, there is a playful tone to her letters. She has strong, dark handwriting and some of the recent ones still smell like the perfume she’d grown fond of as she matured, like jasmine. He wishes that he could write to her now but he doubts that she would listen to him if he begged her to stay out of the fight.  

By contrast Faheem hardly seems to write at all, though he and Mohammad get along much better. His stack of letters is thin and sparse, and all in fewer words. The representative of Baghdad simply preferred to do his talking face-to-face, over pots of tea and coffee. At first, because Faheem was a descendant of Babylon and Babylon was a rival to his mother, Mohammad had worried that they wouldn’t be able to get along. But it turned out that Faheem was very easy to talk to, once you got past his serious face and blunt speaking style.

The three of them came together as children, back when the Caliphate was new. Their teacher turned them away from the idol-worship they’d learned from their parents and their elder siblings. Jana embraced faith; Faheem accepted it with a sort of quiet, intellectual dignity; but Mohammad still looks to the pyramids and remembers the things that his mother believed in. Magic, feather-like souls, the life-giving power of the sun. In some ways, he cannot allow himself to forget. 

It is said that Baghdad is empty now. What few survived the massacre fled.

Mohammad wonders if Faheem is dead after all, if perhaps one of Assyria or Babylon’s other descendants will take charge of the land in his place. It’s a practical thought, but a depressing one. Mohammad distances himself from the grief he wants to feel that night, lying in bed and mulling over everything that is happening to him now. He wants to believe in Faheem's survival. He wants to believe in Jana's strength. He does not pray five times a day, as he was taught, but he feels, increasingly, that faith is all he has left to stand on.

On the 12th of November, Qutuz calls a special meeting at the Citadel, where he announces that Ali will no longer serve as sultan.

He glances at Mohammad briefly, and then says, “Take him away somewhere.”

Ali is pale and meek as he goes with the soldiers.

Distantly, Mohammad recognizes the fact that the boy is going to die like his father.

He looks at his new sultan and then at the doors of the Citadel as they close on Al-Mansur Ali’s face. The boy-sultan is looking over his shoulder at Mohammad, who thinks - bizarrely enough - that he almost looks relieved.

The door swings shut and Al-Mansur Ali is gone. Mohammad will never see him again.

Some of the emirs are uneasy. Qutuz brushes off his clothes and sits in his rightful place.

“That’s that,” he says, a rumble to his voice. “Egypt needs someone strong to protect him. This is no place for a frightened little boy.”

Mohammad closes his eyes but privately agrees and understands what is expected of him.

“If the rest of you don’t like it,” Qutuz adds, his voice rising so that it carries throughout the room, “then find some other sultan. But at least wait until after I’ve defeated the horde.”

* * *

_January, 1260_

Aleppo meets the fate of Baghdad; devastation is total. News trickles out of the Levant, among a steady stream of refugees. The kings of Armenia and Antioch marched through the streets alongside the Mongol general, proclaiming the liberation of the city. They’ve torn down the city’s Great Mosque - but not before using it to perform a Christian Mass.

Sixteen days after the fall of Aleppo, the Mongols arrive in Damascus.

The citizens had already revolted and when the Khan comes to the gates to demand surrender, they hand over their sultan - An-Nasir Yusuf, along with his brother and his son - with no hesitation. Mohammad knows that Jana would have been against this. She does not cower so easily.

She has not written to him in months.

* * *

The emissaries arrive within a week of the news of Damascus's fall. Hugalu Khan must have dispatched them immediately upon victory - perhaps even before. They are approaching the anniversary of Baghdad's destruction and the general's intent would have been glaringly obvious even if they hadn't already known that this day was coming. Qutuz receives the Mongols in the palace, convening a special meeting of the emirs for this purpose. Their audience room - more than spacious enough for the emirs and a few servants of the sultan - feels cramped as mamluk guards file in. Mohammad wears his own sword and stands just behind Qutuz, in the shadow of the wall, just visible enough that the boy who leads the unwelcome guests can spot him.

Mohammad’s eyes narrow in surprise as the doors swing shut and the Mongol emissaries approach the sultan without so much as a bow. He’s a child. He can’t be more than ten. This was their fearsome enemy?

His suspicion is confirmed the moment that the young boy unrolls a sheet of parchment and speaks with a voice clear as a hawk’s cry.

“I have a message from the King of Kings in the east and west, for you, the sultan of Egypt.”

He looks at Qutuz expectantly. The sultan nods, giving him permission to continue.

“You have fled to escape our swords,” the boy reads. “You have heard by now that we have conquered this earth and purified all the lands, and cut down all those who stood to challenge us. Where can you run to? What roads are left? Our horses are swift, our arrows sharp, our swords like thunderbolts, our hearts as hard as the mountains, our soldiers as numerous as the sand. Your prayers will do you no good. We will shatter your mosques and reveal the weakness of your god. We are not moved by tears or laments. Only those who beg for surrender shall be spared. Resist and you will suffer beyond all measure. Your swift reply is requested, lest the fires of war be kindled. You are the only enemy that we have left to march on.”

Qutuz listens impassively and watches while the boy puts his parchment paper away.

A glance around the room reveals that many of the emirs are trying valiantly to hide their obvious anxiety. Even some of the mamluk guards have raised hands to their swords, preparing for a battle. The Khan’s emissaries may have been fresh from battle and wildly outnumbered but they are confident, almost relaxed as they take in the reaction they've caused. They’ve killed all the Abbasids and the Ayyubids, and the mamluks are next.

Mohamamd takes a slow, deep breath.

The boy clears his throat.

“Your swift reply is requested, lest the fires of war be rekindled. You are -”

“I heard you the first time,” says Qutuz, raising his eyebrows. “Do you have a name, boy?”

The boy scowls.

“Don’t call me boy.”

“Very well.”

There’s a pause. The boy’s cheeks go slightly pink.

“My name is of no importance to the likes of you,” he says. “Make your decision or else!”

 _Arrogant child,_ Mohammad thinks. He does not address the sultan as his equal, let alone as his superior. Qutuz doesn’t display any sign of distress, though Mohammad knows that he must feel the threat of this letter. He must be afraid, despite his conviction to fight.

“I must discuss this offer,” he says, and then looks at Mohammad and nods.

Without further ado, Mohammad takes the boy outside.

He’s smaller in person, Mohammad notices. His face is round and his cheeks are flush with the heat. He has a long black braid that reaches to his stick-like waist, and he carries a dagger on his belt. No other weapons. Mohammad’s own sword was made especially for him. It is Toledo steel, inscribed with Quranic verses that speak of protection. It feels heavy against his hip as he walks with the boy through the palace, as if giving him a simple tour.

“I recognized you right away,” says the boy. He sounds animated but he doesn’t smile. He takes twice as many steps to keep up with Mohammad. “They said that your mother was a great empire - one of the very best! But you don’t look much like an empire to me.”

 _Neither do you_ , Mohammad thinks.

It will not take long for Qutuz to deliberate his options. Mohammad decides that it will be best to keep the boy occupied in the gardens for now. He leads the two of them into one of the smaller courtyards, where there are plenty of trees to give shade from the sun overhead, and a small pool with a fountain. Mohammad kneels there, and his companion follows, but not before picking a palm leaf and using it as a makeshift fan. This is the boy who orchestrated the devastation of Baghdad and Aleppo. Though, now that Mohammad has a better view of him, it’s hard to imagine such a soft-looking child ordering the destruction of anything.

“You know,” says the boy suspiciously. “You don’t talk very much.”

Mohammad shrugs. “I was just thinking of something to say.”

“Well, think faster. I’m bored.”

Mohammad’s nose wrinkles but his voice remains cool when he asks, “What is your name, anyway?”

The boy doesn’t answer at first.

“I’m Mohammad,” he supplies helpfully. “You can call me that, if you want.”

“Nergui,” is the mulish reply. “Not like it really matters to you.”

“Well, I’m glad to know it anyway.”

“I’m just glad you’re young like me,” Nergui remarks, surprising Mohammad. “You probably know what it’s like. To have them dismiss you but still want you around because of what you are. I heard that your mother was famous, so I worried that you wouldn’t understand.”

Mohammad looks into the cool, still pond briefly, working his mind around this.

“Is that why you’ve done all this? Because your neighbors did not respect you?”

“Who cares about neighbors?” says Nergui, frowning hard. “Our closest neighbor is China and he doesn’t respect anybody. He thinks we’re all barbarians. Except for Rome, that is.”

“You’re not old enough to have known Rome.”

“Neither are you,” Nergui snaps back, a bit defensive.

“I remember a little bit, though. He came to visit my mother very often when I was little. He always wanted her to join his empire - he kept trying to convince her, right up until the day that she died. And afterwards, I joined the empire in her place.”

“You didn’t resist back then.”

The implication of this statement digs under Mohammad’s skin. He narrows his eyes.

“Resistance had nothing to do with it. I could barely walk on my own, let alone govern myself. I was a child and Rome was an adult. That’s all.”

Nergui announces proudly, “I’ve been riding horses since before I could walk.”

“And how old exactly are you?”

At once, the defensive and petulant version of Nergui returns.

“Do _you_ know how old that _you_ are?”

Mohammad doesn’t know a single nation that knows precisely how old they are. It’s very difficult to measure these things when one’s lifespan can range from decades into millennia. But he’d figured that the Mongol nation must be very young indeed. He shrugs once more.

“I was just curious.”

“Why do you even care?” asks the young Mongol. “Why would you ask that?”

“It was just an innocent question,” Mohammad replies, measured. “I asked because you’re obviously younger than me but you talk as if you’re much older and more experienced.”

Nergui folds his arms and puffs out his skinny chest. It’s an imperious posture, like he’s trying to take up more space than his physical body will permit.

“Age and experience are worthless. I’m unstoppable.”

“I’ve always thought that a truly great man is a humble one as well.”

“It’s not bragging,” Nergui insists. “It’s true. There’s no one on Earth who can defeat me. History will never forget me, since I'll live forever.”

“Maybe."  _Maybe not._ Suddenly, Mohammad has an idea. "Speaking of which - want to hear a story?”

Nergui’s lips purse suddenly. “Quit treating me like a child. I won’t ask you a second time.”

“It’s not that,” Mohammad says, looking into his reflection once more. “It’s just that I thought of a story that my mother once knew. She heard it from someone she met a long time ago. Someone who’s dead now. But it’s a war story. You might be interested.”

His companion seems to weigh the options. It’s clear that he considers storytelling to be childish and possibly even an insult to his intelligence but Mohammad just sits at the water’s edge and waits. The sun climbs higher and higher above their heads, so bright that it pales the sky. It shouldn’t be too long now - before Qutuz is done.

“Fine,” Nergui sniffs. “Tell me.”

Mohammad sits back and closes his eyes.

“This story takes place a long, long time ago. Back then, when a war was called, the victor was decided by single combat. Each group selected a champion and the last man standing was the winner. At this time, a small kingdom had come up against a mighty empire. The empire’s champion was a giant, seven feet tall, with his javelin as long as a man’s arm. He has servants come to polish up his armor every day so it gleams in the sun and his opponents are forced to look away from him. But the little kingdom won’t give up to the empire. So the war continues for forty days and nights.

“One day, a boy comes into the camp to bring food for his older brothers. He hears the daily call for a champion and goes to the general. He says, ‘Please allow me to fight. I can defeat the giant.’

“The soldiers all laugh, but secretly they had grown tired of the war and were afraid to fight the giant. Even they didn’t believe that the boy stood a chance against their enemy’s champion, but the leaders have so few volunteers that they decide to send him out anyway.”

“What happens next?” Nergui’s suspicious expression has only hardened. “Does the giant win?”

And Mohammad tells him, “When the giant arrives on the battlefield in the morning - armor shining in the sunlight, javelin in hand - he laughs at the boy, who has only brought a sling and some stones. But then the boy flings one of the pebbles directly into the giant’s wide forehead and the giant falls flat on his face, defeated at last. The soldiers run forward and cut off the giant’s head, and the empire is so stunned by the fall of their champion that they run away.”

Nergui leaps to his feet, blustering with outrage.

“You made that up. That story’s fake.”

Mohammad stands up as well.

“I don’t really know if it’s real or not. Like I said, it’s just a story that my mother knew.”

He raises his eyebrows down at Nergui, who is practically spitting - but there is a powerful note of fear in the young boy’s eyes.

“I’ll crush you,” he vows. “Like the others. No one can beat me.”

 _Faheem,_ Mohammad thinks. _Jana._

Something inside him pales and he feels very cold, though the sun has nearly reached its zenith.

“No, you won’t,” says Mohammad. “You’re not invincible. And I can prove it.”

He takes Nergui back to the main hall, where Qutuz has decided on his course of action at last.

The emirs have already left. Meanwhile, their mamluks are gathering up the heads of the Khan’s messengers, shaking blood out of their long black braids. The mosaic floors are pooled with crimson and Qutuz is frowning harder than normal. He scarcely looks up when Mohammad opens the doors to show Nergui what has happened in their absence.

Nergui goes white as cotton, gasps, and stumbles backwards.

Mohammad explains, “My sultan and I have decided to hang their heads from Bab Zuweila. That’s the main gate, which you passed through on your way here. Sometimes we do this with traitors and other criminals.”

The young Mongol doesn’t even reach for his dagger. He looks as though he might vomit.

Against his will, Mohammad feels a little mean for putting on this display. After all, he’d already suspected that Nergui couldn’t have been at Baghdad or Aleppo. No way that his generals would risk their young nation getting injured or lost in the carnage. But now Mohammad wonders if Nergui has ever even seen a dead body before - if he’s ever actually been to battle.

“You can’t do this,” says Nergui, shrill like a bird. “I - they’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”

“Some Goliath you turned out to be,” Mohammad replies. “You ought to run back home. But if you still think that you can face me, then I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh… probably the reason why poor young Sultan Al-Mansur Ali was so nervous all the time was that his father was assassinated in front of him. History remembers Sultan Aybak quite kindly but he was extraordinarily unpopular in his day; his actions caused some of his best commanders to defect to Syria. 
> 
> The Mamluks had their own factional struggles, which is what Egypt was dealing with as a new sovereign state. As the power of Baghdad declined, Cairo became more and more important in the Islamic world. When the Seventh Crusade came, it was Egyptian Mamluks lead by Aybak and Qutuz that turned the tide against the European forces.
> 
> I’m torn about whether or not Jana actually did surrender Damascus to save her life or if she had somehow been injured in the fighting at Aleppo and wasn’t even there. I imagine though that she and Faheem both survive this and grow into the modern states of Syria and Iraq. It makes Mohammad worry, however. Did you notice he’s got a bit of a crush on Jana? They have a complicated relationship. 
> 
> The text of the war declaration is accurate - fudged a little to make it flow better as dialogue, but Hugalu was a pretty confident dude. “You are the only enemy on which we have left to march,” like… Jesus, dude! However, it's not true that the Mongols were undefeated when they marched into Egypt. Notably, they had recently suffered several defeats in what is now Vietnam.
> 
> The fact that China thought of Rome as being so civilized has always been kind of hilarious to me, because the Han Dynasty contacted Rome during a period of history which was just nonstop civil war and chaos in the empire. And yet from their documents, China basically thought, “Ah yes! The Romans follow the Mandate of Heaven and replace their leaders when they are going against the will of the people :)” - but it also probably helped that the Han emissaries mostly hung out in Syria and Armenia; they never actually made it Rome itself.


	4. The Man of the In-Between

_**PART III** _

_Mongke Khan is dead._

_Nergui hears the news alongside the general. His face is impassive as he hears the announcement of his brother’s death. Many of their horde appear to be in similar states of astonishment. There are no tears, no laments. That would be unmanly, unbecoming of warriors. The Chinese messenger looks genuinely sad to pass on the news. Nergui wonders if it’s different there, in China - if it’s easier for men to show their feelings, to cry when they are sad or frustrated or frightened. Nergui doesn’t know what to think. He barely knows the Great Khan except as his sovereign._

_Normally, if the Khagan is dead, then one of his sons is nominated to succeed him. There is a council of princes and a ceremony, there are consultations with shamans and feasts. Mongke has many wives and many children, but he died in battle. He was fifty, which is not so old that one cannot fight. They are unprepared for his death and the news comes like a sudden wind from the north, bringing a chill over them all._

_Nergui does not know what happens when a nation has no sovereign. He feels his stomach drop suddenly._

_“What about my brother?” he asks the messenger. “Has Bataar sent anything?”_

_The messenger blinks at him in confusion._

_Hugalu scoffs. “Enough worrying, boy. Your brother is fine. We simply must find a new leader for him, that’s all. I will go back myself and see it done.”_

_But this is far more worrisome than the idea of being kingless._

_“General -” Nergui says._

_“Of course!” one of the lords declares suddenly. “It is natural for the younger brother to take the place of the elder when such things happen. Our general will become the greatest Khan yet!”_

_“King of kings,” another calls with pride. “Conqueror of Baghdad!”_

_Nergui can’t believe it as more hearty cheers follow the initial shouts. These fools don’t know anything at all. They don’t even realize that Hugalu is merely the third of his brothers; that Kublai, the elder and second after Mongke, will not stand back and allow his usurper younger brother to take what he, too, surely believes is his rightful place in Karakorum. And all that does not begin to account for the likes of their cousins - Berke and his Golden Horde in the north. Nergui thinks of his brother’s letter and shudders. But Hugalu is smiling, not discouraging his men even though he knows that, realistically, he can never be the king of kings._

_And for the first time since he was born, Nergui feels the dull edges of fear creep over his heart._

_“If I may, your highness - there is a problem as well.”_

_Hugalu’s smile vanishes instantly. “What sort of problem?”_

_“Prince Asutai has made it known that he intends to support your younger brother, Ariq Borke, who has also claimed the throne.”_

_A rumble of discontent greets this pronouncement. Hugalu gave the signal for silence._

_“What he claims is of no importance to me,” says the general. “I will return at once to settle this matter.”_

_“But, general -” Nergui finds his voice at last. “The invasion -”_

_Hugalu raises an eyebrow, looking down critically. Nergui swallows a lump in his throat._

_“The campaign will continue,” says Hugalu. “You will ride to Cairo as I instructed and give them our declaration. It is likely that the cowards will surrender in any case.”_

But they didn’t surrender. It is so hot in the vast desert that Nergui feels like he is being cooked in his own skin, and everything is uncomfortable. He cannot stop replaying the moment that the doors opened in his mind, transfixed by the sight of his guards' headless bodies on the cool, beautiful floors of the sultan’s palace.

Egypt has golden eyes. Nergui noticed them right away - there is something deeply unsettling about them. China has golden eyes. If the rumors are to be believed, Rome and his descendants have golden eyes as well. He is impassive as he shows Nergui what has become of his escorts - the Tatar, the young Persian, even the old Chinese man, and the five soldiers who had accompanied them into Cairo. The grim-faced mamluks picking up their heads and stepping over the bodies.

_“If you still think you can face me, I’ll be waiting.”_

This is what Nergui thinks about as he rides back from Cairo, alone.

“If.”

* * *

With Hugalu gone, a breath of fresh air arrives in the Mongol's camp.

He is called David of Ashby - a Christian and a Frankish one at that. But he is different from the Crusaders who founded Acre, where they now reside, and the kingdoms like it. David has sailed from the Frankish homeland in order to work with the Khans. He’s writing a book about the Tatars and even speaks a little of the language, which is what initially endears him to Nergui. Beyond that, he’s the only person in the camp who doesn’t treat Nergui like a kid. They often have tea together, and Nergui helps the friar to practice his language. Nergui’s Persian is passable and his Chinese is downright horrific, but he likes the sound of French. It rolls smoothly over his tongue like honey.

David is thin and his jet-black hair is receding. He has very white skin and bright blue eyes, which makes him stick out like a sore thumb and tends to send him scurrying for cover on hot days. He tends to dress plainly - a friar, he says, should not be given to excess - and writes a lot. When he’s not writing his book, he’s writing to Hugalu. Half of the letters leaving camp are from David to the general. He hopes to travel to Persia soon, so that they can meet and discuss an alliance between the Khan and the kingdom of France.

When Nergui returns to the Levant, he goes to David first, before the commanders.

David of Ashby has been given his own place - apart from the women and children who have followed their husbands to war, but far from the warriors as well. When Nergui arrives, he smiles - and then stops smiling, when Nergui blurts out what happened in Cairo all at once, straining the limits of his vocabulary.

“Dear me,” he says, and starts to serve tea. “You must have been terrified.”

Nergui feels a lot better after just admitting the disaster, but he still frowns when he kneels on David’s pillows and accepts his cup.

“I’m not afraid,” he lies. “Just angry. Egypt was supposed to surrender like the rest of them.”

David of Ashby raises his thin eyebrows as he sits across from Nergui.

“I don’t mean to offend you, but have you considered that General Hugalu miscalculated? After all, Cairo was the natural successor of Baghdad - along with Damascus, these are among the Saracen’s most important cities. I personally would find it difficult to believe if Egypt had surrendered outright. They are the last ones standing. I imagine they believe that fighting is their sacred duty.”

When Hugalu went home to settle his brother's affairs, he took the greater part of their host with them. Where there once were three hundred thousand men and their horses, now only those deemed necessary remained. Though Nergui has never known their names or their faces, he feels their absences keenly - washes of empty spaces, gaps between tents, all too wide, too noticeable. The odds of this battle would be much closer that Egypt knew, and that was why it was important for him to surrender outright. Nergui is not sure he can stand against Egypt without his general to direct him. He has allies in the region now, but he doesn’t trust them one bit. They only came to his side out of fear.

“Well, ruling here is my sacred duty,” is all Nergui can think of to say. “So maybe they should understand that.”

David blows on his tea to cool it. Nergui fidgets on his cushion and asks another question.

“So, does your homeland really want to be our allies? They beat the Egyptians before.”

David smiles around the rim of his cup.

“The French lost their last fight with the Saracens, I’m afraid. And besides, I’m not French.”

“Really?”

David looks into the teacup, eyes soft. “Well, perhaps it is like my home now, since I’ve spent so much time there. I studied at university there, and was ordained there. But I was born in another country.”

“What country? Where is it? What’s it like?” Nergui demands at once.

“The name of the country is England,” David says, almost apologetically. “It rains very often, so everything is rich and green, greener than you could ever imagine. But I’m afraid it’s a little beyond your reach. The Khans don’t strike me as a seafaring power, and England is an island at the very western edge of the continent.”

Nergui frowns at this information. Between the grasslands and the deserts, he can’t picture exactly what David means when he describes the landscapes of his birth country.

“That sounds boring.”

“Perhaps, but I haven’t been back there in so many years. I’d like to visit again. Don’t you ever think about going back to your home?”

Karakorum is supposed to be home. But that’s more of Bataar’s place anyway. Nergui shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says uncomfortably. “Home is boring, too. I liked Persia, I guess. Maybe I can build my home there.”

David looks down at his teacup, pensive. “I’m looking forward to seeing Persia very much. They’ve approved me to travel there, I think. I should be leaving any day now.”

Nergui nearly chokes on his tea.

“But I just got back!”

“And I’m glad you came to visit me,” says David consolingly. “But this is important to me. Besides," the friar adds with obvious discomfort, "I can’t afford to be with the horde as you all march into battle. And Commander Kitbuqa has informed me that it’s best if I leave while I can, so -”

Nergui knocks over his tea in his haste as he bolts out of the tent.

He kicks up dust as he sprints through the horde, running until he’s reached the general’s quarters. Kitbuqa Noyan has a plate of horse’s meat in front of him and parchment spread out across his lap. He has a look on his face that suggests that he hadn’t intended to be disturbed, but he does not rebuke Nergui for barging in on him.

“Where are your guards, young lord? Hmm? Has Cairo sent you back already?”

“Someone told me that you’re going to march on the Egyptians,” Nergui says. “Is that true?”

“I was asked by my master to subdue the sultan, and so I shall.”

He speaks so simply. Kitbuqa is one of Hugalu’s closest confidants. Where Hugalu cuts Nergui down with sharp and deliberate blows, Kitbuqa merely lets his words drop, as if Nergui is stupid and has misinterpreted the obvious.

“My guards are dead,” says Nergui. “The mamluks killed them.”

“And your counterpart? Were you able to see him?”

_If you think you can face me._

Nergui swallows. “I - yes.”

“And? What did you think of him?”

 _If._ “He’s ready to die fighting,” Nergui says.

“Then, let him die,” says Kitbuqa, pulling a hunk of meat from his plate and licking his fingers. He spoke with his jaws full. “We’ll march on the Egyptians very soon. I want to get through with this as quickly as possible so that we can rejoin the general.”

Nergui doesn’t want to admit that he can’t face Egypt after what just happened. He’s not ready. They must call off the attack and wait for Hugalu to return. He says, “Why? Does Hugalu think he can become the Great Khan?”

“It’s not that simple,” says Kitbuqa, indicating his parchment with his clean hand. “The Golden Horde has declared war on us, you see. Hulagu intends to subdue them after he finishes attending to the late Khan’s burial.”

Nergui bites down on the inside of his cheek. Berke, the Golden Horde’s commanding officer, had converted to Islam almost a decade ago. Just like Malik Kamil and the Ayyubids - this is his idea of revenge for the killing of the Caliph. How long was he planning this? And Bataar, given his uncertain condition, has no way to intervene. Nergui is surrounded on all sides. The ground beneath him suddenly feels very flimsy. He clenches his jaw until he tastes iron.

“I see that look on your face,” says Kitbuqa calmly. “Stop worrying.”

“What of the alliance with the Franks?”

A flicker of anger crosses the lieutenant’s face. “What of it? We have no need of them.”

Nergui does not understand. David's hard work... it could not be in vain. The Franks could be the difference between salvation and destruction.

"But what if -"

"It's finished," says Kitbuqa. "I won't hear anything else on this matter. Don't think about them anymore. Focus on the campaign." 

“I see,” says Nergui, lowering his head. “Thank you for telling me, I suppose.”

He leaves the tent, feeling more alone than he ever has before.

David of Ashby departs for Persia by the end of the week.

* * *

_Summer, 1260_

“This brings back memories!” says Baibars, while Mohammad serves him and the other commanders tea. The sun is high and the army has retreated into the shade for a few hours. Baibars is fair-skinned, a stark contrast to the dark Qalawan and swarthy Qutuz, who are both grave and solemn. Qalawan nearly smiles at his old friend's conviction but Qutuz’s frown lines deepen. “The three of us, the kid, and a hellish host ahead. Must’ve been - ten years ago exactly now, wasn’t it?”

It was, ten years exactly. Mohammad remembers the campaign well - his first as a new nation, with Aybak at the head of the army. Free of the influence of others, determined to beat back the Franks as they came bearing the cross on their banners. It was a sweet victory, and the memory is potent enough, but it does not dampen the worry that Mohammad feels as they march towards their uncertain future. He knows what is at stake in this fight; these men must understand it as well. Perhaps that is why Qutuz looks even less willing to indulge Baibars than usual.  

“You’re oddly cheerful,” Qutuz says, flat and disinterested. He is still in his regalia but shows no signs of wilting beneath the midday Sinai sun. 

“And you’re the same as you ever were,” Baibars retorts. “Still carrying around that stick up -”

Qalawan coughs.

Mohammad raises an eyebrow as he sets down the last cup before the sultan. These three men were Aybak’s best men during the Crusade. They trained within a few years of each other at the Citadel. But when Aybak had their commanding officer executed for treason, Baibars and Qalawan defected to Damascus. They had spent the last several years leading raids and invasions into their former nation's territory, causing friction between Mohammad and Jana, prolonging their arguments. In all honesty, Mohammad had been surprised to see them return to Cairo at the end of the winter, but he wasn’t going to turn them away. As they say, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Anyway,” says Baibars, dismissively. “I’m sure you’ve already heard the big news.”

When Qalawan and Baibars fled the destruction of Syria, Mohammad asked them for news of Jana and received only vague condolences - that she'd been found, that she was alive. There was no word yet on Faheem. One of Mohammad's duties was to monitor the correspondence that came to the sultan while they were at camp. So every day, he would check the letters for even the slightest sign, even the barest hint of what was to come. Usually, there is nothing. Sometimes, there are only whispers. Baibars now was referring to the rumor that the Mongol general had pulled his troops into Persia. Qutuz nodded.

“So, why shouldn’t we celebrate a little?”

“We shouldn’t be underestimating the enemy,” Qutuz replies without hesitation.

"The bastards are too confident."

Outside, Mohammad hears the tell-tale jangling of swords against belts as a few men move past the tent, disturbing the entrance just so. The desert wind is hot and dry as it passes over them. Baibars grimaces with discomfort but Qutuz pays it no mind. The sultan says, "You’re one to talk, considering how pathetic you've become in Damascus.”

“Damascus wishes only for the safe return of her sultan,” Baibars replies. “I am here to see it done - not for any personal reason.”

This is a lie and Mohammad can see it plain as the sweat on his brow. Baibars is quick and proud and opportunistic and always has been - the type of person who made an excellent friend and a terrible enemy. His dislike of Qutuz is obvious and Mohammad thinks the reason is that Qutuz remained in Cairo instead of defecting. It is this thing that separates Mohammad from the other mamluks. His loyalty lies only with his nation, and not with any particular person. Mohammad wonders if Qutuz has the same feeling - if he is more loyal to Egypt and his people, if that's the reason why he's done all this. Mohammad wants suddenly to thank him, and wonders if perhaps he will find the time to do so after the war.

It cannot be easy for Baibars to be here, working beneath a person he thinks of as a traitor. But the Egypt was the only place left for a man like him. If he had stayed in Damascus, he would have been killed for sure.

Qutuz doesn’t look quite mollified by Baibars's explanation but Qalawan thanks Mohammad for the tea and sends him away after that, so Mohammad hears no more talk of this.

* * *

_September 2, 1260_  
_Jezreel Valley_

Mohammad has never visited what is called "the Holy Land," though he has passed through it several times in the past. He finds it rather beautiful, a stark contrast from the shifting deserts that he’s used to. The mountains are so high that some are even capped with snow. He and the other mamluks make the climb into the highlands, where the greenery is pale, dotted with the telltale signs of farmland and a few towns below. Behind them is the holy city of Jerusalem, where the remnants of a sacred temple lay, the place where Christ was crucified, the place where the Prophet made his ascent into heaven. Mohammad has never given much thought to these stories before but a part of him wishes that they could have gone into the city, at least to visit the mosque. This land has passed through so many hands in its time. He can feel the weight of history in the air - it is the same feeling that he gets when he sees the pyramids beyond Cairo, the remnants of his mother's legacy.

“You look gloomy,” says Baibars, as they climb the slope to gauge a position for tomorrow’s attack. “What’s on your mind?”

Mohammad frowns; Baibars has never particularly cared to know his feelings before. But he explains, “I’ve been thinking about old parables lately.”

“Well, we’re in holy land. Maybe that’s natural.”

Nergui doesn’t make for much of a Goliath, though he fits the role well enough. Mohammad wonders what the Mongols believe in. All this time, he has never thought to ask what sort of gods that Nergui might worship. He looks out at the valley and says, “This land used to have a guardian like me. My mother said she was very strong - but the land was more valuable than her strength. She’s gone now.”

“You’ve valuable, too,” Baibars tells Mohammad, grinning wryly as he does. He is already in his armor, paler and harder; the humor and arrogance is gone from him. “And you may not believe me right now, but I trust your judgment. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

Mohammad understands.

"You ought to stick with Qutuz while you can," says Baibars. "It'll be safer, if you intend to participate. And besides, this may be the last time that you fight at his side! Make it count, eh?"

Perhaps it is only the wind on the mountain that chills Mohammad as he goes to find his sultan.

* * *

Kitbuqa is a Christian, which is something that Nergui had never known. 

“It’s true,” says the commander as they ride for the place where Egypt is waiting with his army. Their horses rumble, too loud. Nergui does not like the thin, quiet air in the valley, nor the pale, clouded sky. “So this battle is especially significant for me. This place is our holy land, and I believe that God shall guide us to our victory.”

Then, Kitbuqa gestures to the long, dark river beside them.

“You know, this place is also called the spring of Goliath.”

“Goliath?” Nergui’s head whips around to stare at the commander, feeling the color drain from his face. “What does that mean?”

Kitbuqa gives him an odd look.

“It’s merely a story, young lord. It involves a child defeating a giant as a metaphor for the power of faith - nothing you would need to concern yourself with. Although,” he remarks, offhandedly. “I believe that your missionary friend is named for the hero of the story. David, who later became the first king of the Hebrews. This was his country - God’s country.”

The commander looks satisfied with his explanation and perhaps even a bit moved by the memory of this land’s long history but Nergui’s blood turns to ice. He’s heard that story before - the one Egypt had made up to agitate him. How would Egypt know a Christian story? Nergui had heard somewhere that Muslims and Christians shared the same god, but with all the fighting they did, Nergui isn’t sure that it’s true. Perhaps it’s only a coincidence. His heart is hammering hard and fast against his rib cage until he fears that it will break free and escape him.

 _If this is holy land_ , Nergui thinks, glancing at the river and the mountains, _then I do not belong here._

* * *

_September 3_

Qutuz had removed his regalia and stands among the ranks, an ordinary soldier to unknowing eyes. Mohammad is at his side, easily the youngest person in the army. They in the From their position on the mountainside, they can see everything that happens once the Mongols have crossed the river.

The Mongols use horses and bows to great advantage - but the mamluks train for such things, and Baibars is as brilliant a strategist as Aybak. He’s come to know the land in his years as a fugitive; he's thought of everything. He first sends in men to draw the Mongols forward. Then he pulls his men back, forcing them to give chase. The legion is oddly quiet. To watch from above in this way is... curious. 

It’s hard, from this distance, to understand that every time a rider falls from his horse or every time a man is cut down with a sword - that’s a person, dying. Sounds of battle drift upwards, muffled by distance, and it’s easy enough to believe that it’s a mirage or a nightmare taking place below them.

Almost idly, Mohammad wonders if Nergui has come to war as well. 

The Mongol commander pursues Baibars as he draws back, again and again, farther and farther up the mountain. It is only then, watching the horses struggle on the narrow, uneven paths, that Mohammad realizes that they aren’t genuinely outnumbered. Their information was correct - the Mongol general has withdrawn the majority of his host and the numbers are even.

Something shifts below them - a stray arrow or an ill-timed arc of a sword -

There - on the left -

The Mongols, who had scattered, come together suddenly - regrouped after Baibar's latest offensive - and there are fewer and fewer mamluks by the second.

It’s a massacre.

Mohammad clearly hears the screams and cries of the dying on the faint breeze as it rushes over him but it is so far away.

Qutuz seems unable to stand it any longer; he throws down his helmet.

“God help me,” he says, and it becomes a war cry.

He spurs his horse at once, and without thinking, Mohammad follows.

They descend the mountain, and into the war.

* * *

It is Nergui’s first battle.

Later, he can’t remember it.

Nergui follows his commander. David of Ashby had once told him that the Christian god abhorred violence between individuals but was less clear on the matter of war. Perhaps he had Kitbuqa in mind when he said that. The last image that stands out in Nergui’s mind before the chaos began is the blazing look on Kitbuqa’s face as he raises his blade, charging headlong towards the Egyptians. The scant sunlight glints on the steel, and his mouth is open in a fierce war cry that is drowned out by the sea of shouting, hoofbeats, and the tremendous, discordant sound that comes when thousands of men nock and lose their arrows, all at once.

The rest of it passes in hard impressions, and a single flash of perfect clarity.

Here is an impression: the impression of a man’s face before Nergui’s arrows pierce between his eyes. It speaks of fear, of disbelief, of understanding that he is about to die. Nergui is already drawing a second arrow but when he notices that the man is falling, he pauses just long enough to see the way that the mamluk crumples into the dirt.

A second impression is of frightful relief and gratitude. Nergui realizes, after a second and a third and a fourth close call, that he is alive for two reasons. Firstly, he is not human. Secondly, his horse does not want to die, either. Despite knowing that it’s only an animal, Nergui is sure; he senses it. They work together, dodging arrows, dodging their allies, dodging their enemies. When a curved mamluk blade slices into the air past Nergui’s arm, he doesn’t feel the cut. Only the fervent understanding that it will heal soon enough. He is an empire on the cusp of his golden age, he is destined to rule these lands, and it is not fatal.

A third impression is of horror, and it is unceasing.

Is this what it was like in Baghdad, when Hugalu came? Nergui remembers the line of civilians leading up to the Caliph's palace. Is this what they felt in Aleppo?

No - it’s different.

They were civilians, and this is a battle between warriors.

Nergui wonders if Egypt has come to war.

Of course he has. How could he not? He’s probably done it before.

Will he face Nergui, as David faced Goliath?

_If._

The clarity comes when Nergui sees his counterpart - just for a fraction of a moment, though it feels much longer. Egypt rides in armor, and he looks older for the hardness in his face. He doesn’t even hesitate to plunge his blade through the heart of an enemy - his enemy, Nergui realizes; for a moment, he barely comprehends that the dead man is own of Nergui's own men. Egypt rides close by with an older man - it is the sultan, the one who ordered the execution of Nergui's tutors and guards, who put their heads on the main gate of Cairo. The sultan has blood on his armor, and his blade is dripping red. He is shouting, repeatedly, the same words over and over again.

Through the confusion, Nergui understands - the sultan’s battle cry is a prayer.

The flash of clarity is gone, however, because of what happens next: Nergui falls from his horse.

He registers a flash of icy fear. The last time he fell from his horse… He was so young. He’s still so young.

Egypt follows his sultan; he turns away. He didn’t see Nergui at all.

Nergui does not want to die.

_Some Goliath you turned out to be._

The hard ground flies up to meet him, and that’s the last thing he knows at all.

* * *

The end of the battle is not momentous. There is no rising tide of triumph, no cheering. The Mongols regroup, again and again. The hordes fight until the bitter, bitter end, and when their lines break and the call for retreat sounds at last, the air is then filled with the pained moans of the dying. Qutuz gets down from his horse, sinks to his knees facing east, and begins to pray in earnest. Again and again, he prostrates himself, kissing the ground in thanks. 

Baibars and Qalawan clean up the rest.

The mountain is dirty, stained with blood, but quieter now. Someday, the bones will fade, like sand in the wind.

They make their way, slowly and uneasily, back to camp. Qalawan and Baibars return not long after Qutuz and Mohammad have arrived, and they have brought a few prisoners along with them. The Mongol commander is called Kitbuqa Noyan, and he wears a small wooden cross about his neck. He is a dark, swarthy sort of person - not, Mohammad thinks, dissimilar to Qutuz in his looks. Kitbuqa Noyan has been wounded in the fighting, which is how he was found, but his eyes are clear and defiant. He shows no fear when Baibars drags him before the sultan.

Qalawan carries the unconscious Nergu in his arms, and shows him to Mohammad. The wound is superficial - bleeding heavily, but not life-threatening. He’ll live to conquer another nation, another day. That isn't a good thing but Mohammad thinks he’d feel a lot worse if Nergui had somehow died in the battle. He asks Qalawan to place the other boy on his back and fetch them some bandages, then sits at his side to wait until he wakes.

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Baibars and Qutuz interrogate the Mongol commander.

“And what of your master?” Baibars demands. “Where is the Khan?”

A translator repeats the message nervously. Kitbuqa Noyan’s cracked lips twist into a mockery of a smile.

“I served my master with honor and loyalty,” he declares. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, you filthy traitor.”

Baibars’s expression goes dark. Qutuz holds up a hand for calm.

“I am not a cruel person,” he tells Kitbuqa. “Truthfully, I feel that I have no quarrel with you. As you said, you served your master with distinction. We are kin, as fellow Turks. I would be glad to offer you a place among us, should you agree to it. If not, I will be forced to execute you.”

Kitbuqa throws back his head and laughs before the translator can finish the sentence.

“Go ahead! The Great Khan will avenge me and all of the men you slaughtered today. You think the war is over when it’s barely begun. You will feel our wrath again soon, I promise you. Sleep with one eye open, you pathetic, godless dogs.”

Qutuz doesn’t even react to the insult.

“And what of the sultan?” he asks. “Where is An-Nasir Yusuf of the Ayyubids?”

“Dead,” Kitbuqa spits out. “You didn’t think we’d be stupid enough to keep him alive, did you?”

Mohammad is tempted to go and ask about Jana. Her dynasty is over - did she know? 

“Very well,” says Qutuz, drawing his sword without further fanfare. “Have you any last words?”

“God is with me,” Kitbuqa replies at once. “So you can burn in Hell.”

His face is calm, not even the slightest trace of fear in his eyes. The soldiers force him to double over, pressing his shoulders towards the ground. Qutuz places the blade against Kitbuqa Noyan’s neck, to gauge his swing before he takes it. Mohammad turns away thinking that the Mongol commander is an honorable man, despite everything. Defiant of his enemies even unto his death, a loyal servant and a fine, fierce warrior - and he will be remembered as such. If necessary, Mohammad will personally ensure it.

The blood stains the earth in crimson. At last, Mohammad feels that it’s finished.

It takes a couple of hours before Nergui wakes, though his wound stops bleeding quickly after Mohammad applies a salve and some bandages. Baibars gathers a host to remove Kitbuqa Noyan’s body. They make arrangements to send his head along to the emirs in Cairo, as proof of their victory. Mohammad thinks he ought to move Nergui to some place with better shelter but the sun is emerging slowly from behind the clouds, and he's advised against shifting Nergui's head around too much. Instead, Mohammad procures a fresh horse and a map of the area. He writes and rewrites a letter. He thinks about what he wants to eat when he gets home, since he's sick of rations by now.

Victory is surreal. Mohammad thinks that maybe he ought to celebrate. But he’s not sure that he wants to. It was like this after the Crusade, too. 

This is the thing Mohammad likes least about his peculiar condition. When violence comes, as violence does, Mohammad and others like him must take up their swords or face death. No matter how sweet or significant the victory, war leaves one feeling drained and uncertain. What happens after you've survived the latest horror? How does the world move on when so much destruction has already happened? But, in the long run, there are fewer threats than there are celebrations. As the sounds of death fade for good on the mountainside, Mohammad finds himself thinking not in terms of the treaties that they will write, or the legends that they'll tell of this day. He wonders if his boss has missed him yet, or if he’s been replaced with another one of Cairo’s army of misfit, orphan boys. Finding a new job could be difficult, not to mention disappointing; he’d liked the pottery shop. He’s missed flood season by now, but there might still be planter’s work. And after that will come the harvest. And after that…

His mother told him once that when they die, they’ll cross a long river and the deeds of life will be balanced against a feather - and if one is worthy, one may go on into a paradise that only the gods know. It's a heavy feather, she'd say with a playful wink, the heaviest feather in the world. How could it not be, when there is so much life to live?

Her legacy is safe for now. Mohammad thinks that death, whatever it brings, must be a long way away. 

* * *

The first thing he feels is his throbbing head.

The second thing he feels is the chill of the wind as it rushes over his limbs and face. The cold bites his cheeks. There’s also a stone in the dirt beneath his head that is nudging him at an uncomfortable angle but when he tries to lift his hand to remove it, he finds that his limbs are heavy and sore. Lights flicker behind his eyelids at the movement, and Nergui feels sick.

Then, he opens his eyes.

He is beneath the open sky, which feels Nergui with an instinctive sense of relief.

He survived the battle. Miraculously, no one trampled on him after he fell from his horse.

Egypt is seated beside him, balancing a little well of ink on one knee and a long sheet of parchment on the other. He doesn’t seem to blink as much as ordinary people, which makes his gaze a lot more intense than it has any right to be. Nergui’s sucks in a breath but his throat is so dry that he starts to cough, and Egypt sighs.

It hurts, straining him so badly that he can barely keep his eyes open. Each breath cut short, another stab of pain in his aching head.

A flask is placed to his lips, and cool water rushes over his tongue.

Nergui nearly chokes.

With something almost like patience, Egypt tilts his head and forces him to swallow.

When the flask is empty, Nergui sinks back into the dirt, feeling wide awake but still unable to move. This is his first campaign, his first real battle - and he’s lost. What happens now? Will Egypt kill him? He doesn’t know.

Egypt sits back and signs his letter before sealing up the inkwell.

“Here,” he says, blowing lightly on the parchment to dry the writing. He set it down, and handed a rolled up sheet to paper to Nergui, who fumbled to take it without sitting up. “You should get going as soon as you feel well. We won’t be able to take you with us, so if you’re strong enough to ride, you can seek medical attention in the next town. I indicated the most direct route, so you don’t have to pass over the mountains.”

Nergui’s mind goes temporarily blank; the map rolls off his chest as his hands go limp.

“What?”

His voice is a rasp; perhaps Egypt doesn’t hear, because he continues.

“This message is for your Great Khan,” he says, rolling the paper up and tying it. “Please try not to wrinkle it too much. I think the ink is still wet.”

He makes to pass the message over. Nergui winces and presses his hand to the dirt. It feels cold and hard beneath his fingertips; he presses down and lifts his torso unevenly.

Egypt puts a hand to his back and helps.

Nergui’s instinct is to jerk away - to snap and say that he doesn’t need the help - but he is so tired. He thinks Egypt might be right about medicine. His hair feels thick and matted, clumped dirt and blood. And his cheek is stiff. And when he finally does get himself upright, all of the air goes out of his head and the ground tilts uneasily. Nergui moans and puts his face in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Take your time,” says Egypt. “There’s really no rush. We might stay in this place for a few days anyway.”

When Nergui finds his voice again, the first thing he asks is, “What is wrong with you?”

He hasn’t opened his eyes again, so he can’t see Egypt’s face but the silence that follows this question is a long and pointed one.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You should’ve let me die,” says Nergui. It just slips out, but it feels true enough. “You should’ve cut off my head and just let me die.”

Bizarrely, he can hear Egypt smiling when he replies.

“One defeat doesn’t mean that you’re lost as a nation. I’ve lost plenty of battles before and I’m still here.”

“It’s different for us,” says Nergui. _It’s different for me._

“You’ll be fine,” says Egypt. “And if you do die someday, then at least you’ll know that you fought honorably.”

“We didn’t.”

He opens his eyes at last. The sky is clear but he cannot tell what hour it is. Perhaps it will get dark soon. Nergui takes a deep breath, allowing the crisp air to fill his lungs.

“Did Rome fight honorably, when he killed your mother?”

It’s a halfhearted attempt to get a reaction out of Egypt. There’s no real edge to Nergui’s words anymore; his sharp tongue has finally failed him. But Egypt seems to realize how exhausted he is, and doesn’t rise to the bait at all.

“You’re nothing like Rome,” says Egypt. “Besides, that was a different time.”

Nergui feels sick, thinking about all that’s happened since he left on campaign. He doesn’t even want to go back to Karakorum, where he knows that his brothers are waiting and will scorn his bloody victories and mock his defeats before they all go to war. Bataar with his strategy books, the Golden Horde with his sharpness - even Chagatai, whose country lay in the center of it all. Where can they go after this? Where can Nergui go home to? Persia? There is a boy there like Nergui, like Egypt but David of Ashby is there also, and he can help. But surely the Franks will no longer accept Nergui now, after this loss and all that happened with Kitbuqa…

“Where is Kitbuqa?” asks Nergui, suddenly remembering.

“Dead.”

“Oh.”

Hugalu’s best and most loyal commander - gone. Nergui is not surprised that they killed him but wonders how Hugalu will react. The next wars would be against his own brothers. He feels tired just thinking about it.

“Can you stand up?” asks Egypt.

Nergui wants to say ‘no,’ but he thinks that if he does, Egypt will sit and wait here at his side until it’s time for him to leave. And he doesn’t want to spend even another second in Egypt’s company. With shaking fingers, he opens up the map and gauges the distance to the next town. A day and a half’s ride, if the horse is refreshed and Nergui can keep himself upright in the saddle for that long. His head still hurts but he accepts Egypt’s offered hand and stands up.

For a moment, the two of them simply look at each other.

“I’m not going to say thank you,” Nergui declares after awhile. “Once I heal and my army is whole again, then I’ll come back and crush you.”

“Naturally,” Egypt replies.

He can’t tell his rival about his family, or about the looming danger they pose. He cannot talk about the gnawing emptiness that has always been inside of him but is more pronounced here, now, after his first defeat. Instead, Nergui decides to be grateful for Egypt’s simple acceptance of of his useless threat. Speaking those words allows him to pretend that he will be back. Maybe not soon and at this place, but he will see Egypt again. Of that, at least, he can be sure.

His rival helps him to mount the horse and indicates the packed provisions. He tells Nergui to ask for “Omar” in the next town, because that man can help Nergui prepare for the long journey to home. Egypt has no way of knowing that home is another war front and that nothing will be able to prepare him for the ordeal of fighting against his own brothers. Nergui wonders if he ought to tell Egypt - if Egypt might understand. He only chews on his lip and allows Egypt to lead him and the horse through the mamluk camps, to a path down at the bottom of the mountain.

At last, the sky lightens for a watercolor sunset, softly illuminating the mountains. Ahead of him, he can see the horizon of a starless night, and takes one last deep breath, filling his lungs and steeling his body for the long hard journey, and all the wars to come.

Nergui tells himself that he will not look back, but he does in the end.

He turns his head, seeing where his rival has climbed part way up the slope, watching him depart. Egypt's eyes are bright in the fading sunlight, his gaze impassive. His shadow stretches long and heavy out before him.

From this distance, Egypt looks gigantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle is won! But the war is far from over. 
> 
> The Franco-Mongol Alliance fell through for a variety of reasons. Originally, the Vatican kind of liked the idea of the Mongols destroying their age-old rival, the Islamic Empire. They quickly realized that if the Muslims fell, they would be next and set about quietly aligning themselves with the remaining Muslim powers, allowing them to pass freely through Crusader states on their way to battle. More specifically, the alliance with France fell through because one of the leaders of Acre offended Kitbuqa by killing one of his sons, and he sacked a nearby town in retaliation. 
> 
> Oddly enough, Kitbuqa is remembered admirably by Mamluk histories of Ain-Jalut. Even though it was clear that he was about to be overpowered, he continued fighting. The remnants of his army fled to Syria where Jana got her sweet revenge and picked them off one by one. 
> 
> The reason why Nergui and his brothers are young in this fic is because the idea of a Mongol state is very new. However, Bataar does go on to found the Yuan dynasty with Kublai Khan, whom you may remember as the Great Khan of Marco Polo’s travels! 
> 
> Nergui doesn’t survive the next hundred years, I’m afraid. Hugalu dies in 1265 and the Ilkhanate of Persia, which he builds and Nergui represents, only lasts until the mid-14th century. To be honest, I feel kind of bad for the kid - like Holy Rome, he never really gets a chance to grow up. Persia’s son - later the state of Iran - probably just cleans up Nergui’s mess without much fanfare.
> 
> Qutuz’s victory is also short-lived. Baibars gets revenge for the death of his commander and has Qutuz assassinated on the way back to Cairo, then marches into the capital to claim not only the sultan’s throne but also the credit for victory over the Mongols. Baibars would go on to have a wildly successful military career, enacting vengeance on the states which supported the Mongols. He became sovereign in Syria after the remaining Ayyubids pledged loyalty to him and annexed the Crusader Kingdoms, committing some of the worst atrocities of the era to do so. He also funded medical research, built a cat garden in Cairo, and appointed a Caliph but this role would never have the same power and influence that it once did as they were mainly instruments to legitimize Egyptian sultans. History is full of complicated men. And so ends the Islamic Golden Age.
> 
> If you like this fic, please let me know! If you'd like for me to write more about Egypt, then GOOD because after writing this piece I want to write about a million fics about Egypt. Unfortunately I'll be in Grad School Hell for the next few months - but you never know what the future will bring! I hope you're enjoying the Brief History of Time event!!


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